When I enter the store on Gradiziol, a few ladies at least my age are already there. “Happy March 8!” I salute them from the door. There are grins all around. And then we start talking about the most appropriate presents for this holiday. In no time, flowers come tops. “But I cannot find any around here,” I complain. “Ah,” one of them looks at me in mock reproof, “that extra effort is what really counts!” And then she tells everyone assembled about the good old days. “Our husbands would bring us flowers, all right,” she chuckles, “but they would be quite embarrassed if they would be spotted carrying them around.” Everyone laughs. “Of course,” she continues, “this is why we always made sure everyone knew what everyone else got on this day.” On my way out of the store, I wave everyone goodbye: “Silly, silly men!” Over the moon, the ladies wave back.